tematic disorder
of the apartment beyond, three or four blue-shirted men were grouped,
bending over a set of drawings, which Lestrange was explaining.
Explaining with a vivid interest in his task that sparkled over his
clear face in a changing play of expression almost mesmeric in its
command of attention. The men watched and listened intently; they
themselves no common laborers, but the intelligent workmen who were to
carry out the ideas here set forth. Wherever Lestrange had been, he
was coatless and the sleeves of his outing shirt were rolled back,
leaving bare the arms whose smooth symmetry revealed little of the
racing driver's strength; his thick brown hair was rumpled into boyish
waves and across his forehead a fine black streak wrote of recent
personal encounter with things practical.

"Oh!" exclaimed Emily faintly. And after a moment, "Close the curtain,
please."

None of the group in the next room had noticed the movement of the
shade, absorbed in one another; any sound being muffled by the throb
of adjacent machinery. Bailey obeyed the request, and leaned back in
his chair.

"That's Darling Lestrange," he stated with satisfaction. "That's his
own design for an oiling system he's busy with, and it's a beauty.
He's entered for every big race coming this season, starting next week
in Georgia, and meantime he oversees every department in every
building as it never was done before. The man for me, he is."

Emily made an unenthusiastic sign of agreement.

"I meant very different men from Mr. Lestrange," she replied, her
dignity altogether Ffrench. "I have no doubt that he is all you say,
but I was thinking of another class. I meant--well, I meant a
gentleman."

"Oh, you meant a gentleman," replied Bailey, surveying her oddly. "I
didn't know, you see. No; I don't know any one like that."

"Thank you. Then I will go. I--it does not matter."

She did not go, however, but remained leaning on the arm of her chair
in troubled reverie, her long lashes lowered. Bailey sat as quietly,
watching her and waiting.

The murmur of voices came dully through the closed door, one, lighter
and clearer in tone, most frequently rising above the roar pervading
the whole building. It was not possible that Emily's glimpse of
Lestrange across the glass should identify him absolutely with the man
she had seen once in the flickering lights and shadows on the Long
Island road; but he was not of a type easily forgotten, and she had